


Up A Tree

by CastielsLieutenant



Category: Chris Evans - Fandom
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-25
Updated: 2014-11-25
Packaged: 2018-02-26 23:59:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2671289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CastielsLieutenant/pseuds/CastielsLieutenant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>** WIP **</p><p>Monkey-girl and Mr. Dorito meet when he literally scares her out of her tree...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Up A Tree

He's back – the guy you uncharitably refer to “Mr. Dorito” and he's sitting on the shady bench he's eaten lunch on for the last couple of weeks. Not that you've noticed, of course. No, you're _far_ too busy re-reading the drafts of your work on your tablet and making corrections. This is important work and you will not be distracted by a dirty-blonde haired man with the shoulder-waist ratio of a corn chip.

 You sigh and lean back in the fork of the tree you're currently seated in. Many a student has sat here before you and you wouldn't be surprised if many a student will sit here again. It's a beautiful old oak – lush and green with summer – and the breeze brings the scent of the warm day to waft around you. It's the kind of day that you could easily nap in, but unfortunately don't have the time to. You swipe the screen and start reading the next page of your writing. This is important, even if it's only important to you.

 “Excuse me?”

 The sudden nature of the statement makes you jump and lose grip on your tablet and you watch helplessly as the computer takes a spill out of your hands and tumbles end over end towards the ground. You close your eyes and wince, waiting for the inevitable crack as it hits the gnarled roots below, but it never comes. You open your eyes a fraction, curious to the fate of it.

 Dorito Man stands about a foot below you, your tablet in his left hand and grinning apologetically. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you.” He reaches up, handing back the computer. You take it back tentatively, your eyes tracking his every move with suspicion. He's good-looking; in that ridiculous, clean-cut, all-American boy way. Which is stupid, because he's standing in the immediate surrounding grounds of one of England's best universities. But he has a nice face – honest, sweet and, well, almost innocent if it wasn't for that mischievous twist to his smile. Dorito torso aside, he's well-built with a slim waist and what could be classed as powerful thighs. You're not quite sure, though, as he's wearing comfortable track pants and running shoes. The light blue, long-sleeved layered tee seems to be a concession to keeping out the last of the spring chill that summer has been fighting off and his eyes are hidden behind a large pair of sunglasses. “I don't normally make a habit of terrifying people out of their tree.”

 “I'm sure there's a pun in there somewhere,” you grumble, turning over the tablet in your hands. No obvious signs of manhandling. Your eyes shoot back to his face as he takes his sunglasses off.

  _Hoo, geez_. Those are some baby blues.

 “Probably. I make the worst dad jokes you'll ever hear.” Oh no. No, he doesn't get to be charming and flirty. That's not what's happening here. No. You're going back to your editing work and Mr. Dorito I-have-the-reflexes-of-a-cat-on-speed can take his well-shaped ass back to the bench from whence it came. He nods to the tablet. “I've seen you out here just about every day with that. You a student here?”

 “Ph.D candidate. Classic literature.”

 “Woah.” His voice has an American twang to it, but it's soft and not as abrasive as you had initially suspected. “That's pretty heavy stuff. What's your thesis on?”

 You straighten a little, preening under the attention to your work. “Classic literature has been a forerunner for many technological advances. Stories like the Sherlock Holmes cases led to modern forensics and police investigation. Jekyll and Hyde was an allegory for addiction. My thesis is based on extrapolating plots and narrative devices in several classic novels, what we can expect to achieve in the future.” You pause for a moment, running the thoughts through your head. “And it doesn't stop there. Science fiction in the vein of Arthur C. Clarke and Isaac Asimov has birthed a whole generation of AI that we can't even begin to keep up with.”

 “So what you're saying is, how is what was written in the past affecting the future?”

 “Precisely!” You beam, very much impressed with his intelligence. Dorito has a brain after all. The thought makes you feel a little ashamed of your rather unfriendly assessment of him. You extend a hand to shake. “I'm sorry, I don't believe we've met.”

 Dorito bites his lower lip gently as a slight blush colours his cheeks and he averts his eyes. “True, but I've been calling you Monkey-girl in my head for the past two weeks,” he admits as he shakes your hand. You laugh, relieved you weren't the only one who had made up a stupid nickname for the other.

 “Don't worry, you've been Mr. Dorito in my head for about as long.”

 “Mr. Dorito?” He laughs heartily, slapping his broad chest with his free hand. “Well, that's not _quite_ what's on my birth certificate.”

 “Then what is?”

 “I'm Chris. Chris Evans.”

 “You're a student around here?”

 “Not quite. I'm shooting a movie in the old abbey on the grounds.”

 “Oh, you're a director.”

 He retrieves his hand and pushes it into his hair. “Yeah... sort of. I direct... and I act.”

 “Have I seen anything you're in?”

 He eyes you up, trying to work out if you're playing games with him. “Are you serious?”

 You shrug. “Bookish type. I don't get out a lot.”

 “Alright. Captain America?”

  _Oh._

 Suddenly it all drops into place at the same time you manage to drop sideways out of the tree in shock. Chris has a moment to hear you yelp before those cat-like reflexes kick in and he catches most of your weight as you collide into him. Unfortunately, he seems to have underestimated how heavy you are and drops to the ground with you, albeit with a deep grunt, a little more grace and less bruises than you originally thought you'd get. You sit upright in his lap, pawing your hair out from your eyes as you gape at his face.

  _Jesus Christ, how did you not notice it before?_

 Clearly, there was good reason for that. He doesn't look like Steve Rogers out of costume, aside from the physique and general stature. Cap is all straight-backed and patriotic; Chris is laid-back and slightly ironic. This isn't Cap helping you to your feet and dusting off the fallen oak leaves attached to your shirt and jeans.

 


End file.
